


Ballsy Move

by HaleHole (SweetFanfics)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pool Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:21:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetFanfics/pseuds/HaleHole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Shit." Stiles complains, one hand on his hips as leans on the long cue stick, frowning heavily at the ball in an offended manner. “I thought I had that."</p><p>That comment makes Derek roll his eyes, <i>hard</i> - one of these days he’s going to get Stiles to understand that thinking, over thinking and researching isn’t enough of a strategy and there’s something to be said about proper implementation of aforementioned thinking and strategizing. </p><p>The one where Derek tries to help Stiles' posture and stance when it comes to playing pool and the lesson quickly turns into something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ballsy Move

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started out as a ramble to Coraline about how I thought Sterek pool table sex would be like ([cuz THIS POST AND DAT TAG](http://chaoticwaltz.tumblr.com/post/52452702858/perseused-where-is-all-the-fic-where-stiles)) and next thing I know, its a fic. Special thanks to Kim for beta-ing this and putting up with my whining. If you groaned at the title after reading this, gomen not gomen.
> 
> [Mike David, really great pool player apparently](http://www.internationalpooltour.com/Players/Bio_Davis_Michael.aspx). But i know jack shit about pool.

Derek can’t stop staring at Stiles as he leans over the pool table because there’s no way in HELL that Stiles can make the shot if he’s all elbows and bad posture. Plus there’s also the way his ass is kind of really sticking out. There’s a lot to stare at, is what Derek’s saying. But the posture thing is really the worst part.  
  


Sure enough, the shot goes wide, the white ball smacking against the edge of the pool table before it lazily rolls across the green pelt,before eventually stopping. “Shit." Stiles complains, one hand on his hips as leans on the long cue stick, frowning heavily at the ball in an offended manner. “I thought I had that."  
  


That comment makes Derek roll his eyes, _hard_  - one of these days he’s going to get Stiles to understand that thinking, over thinking and researching isn’t enough of a strategy and there’s something to be said about proper implementation of aforementioned thinking and strategizing. “You were standing all wrong." He points out, stepping forward for his turn, critically eying the striped 10 ball. “It was going to go wide anyways."   
  


He doesn’t have to look back to know that Stiles is probably frowning heavily at him now - judgemental eyes and all. Derek tells himself that he doesn’t care about how in the low light of the rec room Stiles’ eyes are probably glinting like whiskey in a glass, nor about the oddly pretty twist to his lips as he almost pouts. Instead, Derek lines up the shot, the cue tip gently hitting the white ball so that it rolls forward to nudge the striped ball into the corner pocket.  
  


"What’s wrong with the way I’m standing?" Stiles asks, poking Derek’s leg with the wider end of the cue stick as soon as the other man straightens. “Who do you think you are? Mike Davis?" Derek ignores the jib (and who the hell was Mike Davis anyways?), kicking the stick away from him before walking around to the other side of the table to focus his attention on the striped 11.  
  


Stiles follows after him, Derek has a hard time stopping himself from comparing Stiles to a baby duckling (its the bright yellow shirt, he swears). “C’mon." The teenager cajoles, both hands resting on top of his cue stick as he watches Derek make his shot. “What’s wrong with the way I’m making the shot. Tell meeeee."  
  


As he straightens up again, Derek stares at Stiles and wonders just how serious the teenager is. Just the way he’s playfully looking at Derek, coupled with the easy body language, Derek’s brain is working overtime to figure out Stiles’ intentions. You’d think that after 3 years of knowing someone… you’d  _know_  them. But Stiles is still a bit of an enigma, even on the best of days.  
  


Heightened, supernatural senses, as it turns out, don't do much against a person who’s heartbeat tends to beat a little faster than normal anyways, mixes lies and truths together and perpetually stinks of hormones and lust.  
  


Instead of answering, Derek makes room for Stiles to step forward, willing to play along with whatever game the teenager has planned. Stiles grumbles under his breath, something about stoic, broody werewolves who can’t use words right, eyes darting over the solids that are spread over the table.  
  


As Stiles ponders his choices, Derek steps up behind Stiles, chest to back, with a warning hand placed lightly on the teenagers waist. Stiles jumps, shoulders bumping back into Derek as he almost elbows the werewolf in the ribs. “What the-"  
  


Derek nods back at the table, ignoring Stiles’ increased heart beat (and he’s not thinking about that musky cloying scent that only means one thing. No! No, he’s not thinking about THAT  **at all** ). “What are you thinking?" He murmurs quietly, looking at the table instead of Stiles' shoulder and neck.  
  


Probably the wrong thing to ask, not to mention in completely the wrong tone (it's the close promixity to Stiles’ body that's forced the husky edge out). But he just can’t help himself. Derek can’t stop from teasing himself just as much as he’s teasing Stiles by standing cheek to cheek with the teenager, hips and thighs almost touching.  
  


Stiles’ breath stutters, Adam’s apple bobbing as his eyes dart down to Derek’s mouth before returning to the table. “The 6." He replies, voice thready on the edges as he explains. “Hit the 15, it hits the 6 and into the pocket."  
  


Derek nods, putting his cue stick away. His hands gently pulling Stiles back, moving the teenagers tense body with both his hands in the proper position. “You’re too stiff." He murmurs, nudging Stiles foot another inch forward with his own. “And your head’s too high. Put it just a bit lower…"  
  


It’s a bit of a wonder that Stiles is being so docile and letting Derek guide him. Especially when Derek's every touch is heavy with intent, making the heat under his skin rise higher and higher. Derek is far too aware of his chapped and dry lips, scratchy throat and sweaty palms when their hips align just right. He’s enjoying the almost brush of Stiles' ass against his crotch, adjusting Stiles’s legs with gentle nudges so that their thighs rub together, pulling Stiles’ elbow back with a tiny push…  
  


The dull thudding of Stiles’ heart, along with the flushed skin and nervous-lust scent, implies that the other man is enjoying the fleeting touches as much as Derek is. He’s ready to swear that the heat pouring off Stiles has grown past a fever pitch in the past minute alone. Derek  _can_  easily assume that its just nerves that’s making Stiles’ heart beat race.  
  


However, there’s that scent…  
  


That thick, cloying scent that’s wrapped around Stiles like a warm, haze-inducing blanket. The one that means that he’s enjoying this, that he’s aroused, that he _wants_. It makes Derek’s head swim, struggle to stay afloat in the lust flooding his system. Makes him press up against Stiles’ back, forcing him to bend over the table. And whispers, “Don’t jerk your arm when you make the shot. Keep it fluid. Relaxed."  
  


To demonstrate, Derek gently pulls Stiles’ arm back and forth a few times. Just the way that the cue stick slides back and forth makes his mouth go dry, the slim wooden stick sliding between Stiles’ fingers… “Fuck." Stiles groans quietly, head hanging down an inch or two above the table. “If you’re doing this on purpose just to drive me crazy, I’m going to…"   
  


The whine that Stiles lets out as his hips roll back into his crotch make Derek think,  _‘Fuck it’_. Derek yanks the cue stick out of Stiles’ hand, forcing him turn so that he can kiss Stiles before his blood burns so hot that Derek’s dust on the floor of the rec room.  
  


Stiles follows willingly. It’s possible that he’s ahead of the curve because he grabs at Derek, desperate fingers clutching at his neck and hair, and pulls him in with a heavy groan.  
  


It’s a painful first kiss. Derek’ pretty sure that one of them split their lip because there’s a faint taste of blood on his tongue when he pushes into Stiles’ mouth without any damned finesse. When Stiles groans and digs his fingers into Derek’s shirt, his teeth into the werewolf’s bottom lip, Derek genuinely can’t give a fuck about it.  
  


His hands push-pulls at the idiotically bright t-shirt that Stiles is wearing, wanting to sweep over all the hot skin that he can and leave his mark on Stiles' body. Derek’s fingers inadvertently brush against the wiry trail of hair that leads down to where he really wants to get his hands, tongue and mouth on.  
  


"Der-" Stiles’ breath hitches when Derek’s hands brush against his crotch.   
  


He’s hard. Stiles is hard. For him. Because of him.   
  


The desperate urge to taste Stiles, to have his scent on him,  _in his mouth_ , makes Derek claw at the belt and zipper impatiently. He pushes the denim down to Stiles' ankles as he goes down to his knees. With one hand, Derek pushes Stiles' to sit back on the table as he shoulders his Stiles’ spread legs and stares at the sight. His mouth goes dry when the covered cock twitches, the wet spot near the glans slowly growing.  
  


With a tiny whimper, Derek rubs his mouth against the bulge, licking the hard line that’s straining against the cotton briefs. His hands slide over Stiles’ thighs, rubbing back and forth in a restless manner as he kisses and sucks at the damp spot near the elastic. The muted taste makes hisown cock  _throb_ and his hands itch to jerk himself off  _immediately_.   
  


"Wait, wait." Stiles’ hands press into his own, the warmth of them breaking the lust-drunk fever that’s taken over Derek. That along with the breathy edge to the other man’s voice makes Derek look up, blinking in confusion and displeasure.   
  


Thin fingers pull at his shirt, tugging it over Derek’s head as well as pulling him up to his feet. Stiles groans as he manages to yank it off Derek, appreciatively eyeing the revealed skin. “As much as I appreciate you wanting to blow me, and  _trust me_  I do! I kind of have something else in mind. Not that I wouldn’t like the oral sex to happen many many times later and vice versa or mutually or whatever." Derek watches Stiles’ pull his own shirt off, tossing it somewhere behind him before he manages to yank one foot out of his jeans and falls back onto the pool table with a grin and spread legs. “I’d rather you fuck me." The cracked voice in which Stiles says this goes against the smooth way his leg wraps around Derek's hip and yanks him in.  
  


Derek can’t help but raise an eyebrow at that, amused and aroused at the same time. “I don’t have any lube on me." He points out huskily, happily pressing forward into the space that Stiles has so generously made for him. He just has to lick his lips when he feels Stiles tighten his legs around him, bony ankles and shapely claves running up and down his thighs in stuttered strokes.  
  


As distracting as those touches are, they have nothing on Stiles’ hands. He watches Stiles’ hands sweep over his chest, tweaking one nipple and stroking over the other before flitting down to (God he loves those hands and those fingers) tug playfully at Derek’s zipper. It’s only the light trembling that gives away Stiles’ nerves before his hand is sliding in under the underwear to grip Derek’s hard length.  
  


Derek inhales sharply at that first touch, back bowing forward as the pleasure crashes into him. “Dont you know, Derek?" Stiles breathes out, eyes twinkling, fingers squeezing and stroking him too hard, too fast. “There’s more than one way to do that." Derek groans and falls forward, hands braced on the felt beside Stiles’ head as he lets the teenager push his jeans and underwear down in impatient tugs before repeating the same motions on his own underwear.  
  


Derek can’t stop himself from scratching at the pool table when Stiles wriggles his way forward so that their dicks are lined together, hard and smooth and smearing pre-come against each other so imperfectly-perfect. “Jesus." Derek pants, head dropping down on Stiles’ shoulder. He’d be lying if he says that he hasn’t thought of this before (in the dark of the night when he was all alone and could pretend that there wasn't anything wrong in wanting to debauch the then almost eighteen year old who’s gotten under his skin like the best-worst kind of itch).  
  


Mouthing words, curses, groans into Stiles' shoulder, Derek is hyper aware of the body, the man under him. When he pulls away slightly, all he can see (his eyes keep darting down the long length of Stiles’ torso to watch himself and Stiles rubbing together, the sticky-wet only growing), all he can smell (sweat, Stiles, lust, him, sex musk) is Stiles. This almost man whom Derek has  _wanted_ for what feels like forever and now that he’s got him… It’s the dirtiest, best thing that he’s ever seen and he says so.   
  


Stiles laughs brokenly at the confession, the sound of it so bright and careless before he nips at Derek’s ear and chin, knees squeezing the werewolf’s torso. “Wait till I tell you about what I wanna do with you when we have a whole weekend." The purr makes Derek's hip stutter and jerk between Stiles' thighs, claws digging deep gouges into the table that will no doubt raise several questions next time someone is over and wanting to play pool.   
  


Not that he can give a fuck about that at the present because Stiles is murmuring all the things that he wants to do with him, to him and Derek, can’t be bothered to think about anything else. “Yes." He groans into Stiles’ neck, his mind bombarding him with images of Stiles over him, under him, beside him, on his knees, on his back, rocking harder now that Stiles’ has his hands wrapped around them both. “Everything, anything for you." Derek promises, right into Stiles' ear and seals the deal by nipping on the shell.  
  


It’s just a tiny bit of a surprise that  _that’s_ what breaks Stiles - makes him throw his head back so hard that it  _clunks_ against the table - makes him let out a  _whine_ as he comes all over himself and Derek in messy spurts.  _‘That’s Stiles. I made him come. That’s his come on me.’_  And that’s it for him too. Just the knowledge that he was responsible for giving Stiles so much pleasure, that Stiles is making him feel like he's going to float away any second now, that Stiles is pink faced and loose limbed in front of him as a result of something _he_ said (plus the dirty, sticky feeling of Stiles’ come coating his cock, being rubbed in by Stiles' tight grip…) makes Derek shudder and finish as well.  
  


"Mmmm." The lazy groan that rumbles up into him makes Derek realize that he’s collapsed on Stiles, chest to chest and making them stick together thanks to sweat and rapidly cooling come. “That was nice _._ " Stiles hums, fingers giving them both one last stroke before his fingers wipe themselves clean against a clean patch of skin on Derek's chest.  
  


Derek can only hum in agreement, enjoying the way Stiles' hands have curled around his back and how he's surrounded by Stiles'. The werewolf hopes that the hand that’s petting his hair is free of come. Then again, if it isn’t, he’ll just drag Stiles to the shower and tell him to help in the clean up. As he’s entertaining the notion of shower sex, a quiet chuckling noise makes him prop himself up on his elbows and look down at Stiles with a curious look.   
  


For his part, Stiles looks impish as he teases, “Screw ball, corner pocket." Derek stares down blandly at the teenager before rolling his eyes and dropping back down, ignoring the affronted ‘oof!’ that Stiles lets out. Honestly, how was this the person that he was crazy for? 


End file.
